


Jean will help you if you help him

by jeanjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Freeform, Kinda, Recovery & Escape, The Perfect Court (All For The Game), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-23 20:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13197642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: In another course of events, Neil received Kevin’s advice in time to board his plane for West Virginia. Perhaps is it enough to change everything.





	1. All the king's men (but one)

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another demonstration of my weakness. Protect these children pls

_Jean will help you if you help him._

He’d read the text over and over again, unsure at first what it was supposed to say. He understood all the words and he could easily piece them together to create a sentence, but the meaning of it stayed out of reach, unhelpful, more so when Jean made a point to be unlikeable.

At first glance, Neil Josten and Jean Moreau didn’t have much in common. They were startling opposite, only alike when their fierce temper bumped into each other. To tell the truth, Neil loathed the sight of him. He often lost himself in the paradox of envying and resenting, both the future he could have had and the one Jean would get to have in his stead. He knew better than to voice that stinging tang of bitterness, hyperaware of what it meant for Jean, and what it would have meant for him, for Kevin, for all those kids unlucky enough to be considered privileged. Nobody questioned a privileged one; a tense smile was taken as a whim, a cry was all but for help. The Ravens’ gold cage was too beautiful for people to look beyond its shiny, enviable frame. Neil had been fooled once, too.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Jean sighed an umpteenth time, and Neil didn’t have it in him to look up from the cold tiles. The shower had lost its reassuring warmth, and he couldn’t tell how long they’d been standing there, two showers apart, drowning in silence and resentment.

That, Jean had told too often. He could imagine the familiar echo of these words, heavy with a French accent that showed a little more in false moments of peace of mind. At the end of the day, Jean would hardly bother speaking English at all.

“T’es con, tu le sais ça ?1” He sighed once more but didn’t meet his eyes. Neil figured it was too much of an effort, and a very useless one.

It took him a few seconds to remember the French insult, but he didn’t wince, nor did he talk back. He blamed it on the exhaustion, but deep down he knew better. It wasn’t exactly that he didn’t have the heart to snap back—in fact, that being Neil Josten’s very special skill, it was more than likely he would have bothered even half-dead on the ground. Bets on him spitting rage at Riko’s face seconds away from death would probably guarantee the Foxes’ fortune forever.

No, it wasn’t exhaustion, and it wasn’t gentleness. It was understanding, and though none of them voiced it, they understood.

At first glance, Neil Josten loathed everything there was to loathe about Jean Moreau. He didn’t want to be his friend and he certainly didn’t want to be helped by him. But he couldn’t deny the necessity of their wobbly alliance, the way Jean’s gaze sometimes lingered to make sure he was alright, the way his mouth twitched when he guessed something bad was going to happen—to the both of them, or to Neil at all.

He would have gladly blamed Kevin for that, but he’d figured out by now that Kevin and Jean had stopped talking. Moreover, imagining Kevin asking for a favor—much less for Neil’s sake—was hardly believable. Kevin’s pride was a terrible thing, but his fear even more so.

He chose to step on those familiar grounds, both to satiate a blurry bit curiosity, and to distract himself from the ache all over. He couldn’t even put soap in his hair; lifting his arm shoulder-height had fast become impossible.

“So why don’t you and Kevin get along anymore?” The question was more provocation than anything else—he already had all the answers to this, he simply wanted to hear Jean’s side of the truth.

On their first day, Jean would had given a careless glance and looked away almost as fast. Today, however, he punched the shower to a stop and walked toward Neil; eyes lingering elsewhere, certainly not wanting to find whatever warning his held for Jean.

His own shampoo in hand, he spat a good amount on Neil’s head and ignored the muffled protest. Jean wasn’t gentle, even if he should have been. Chances were Neil had been concussed today, and he’d caught him throwing up on the side of the field. Of course they'd had to clean up afterward, for which he hated Neil a little more. But he knew Neil didn’t need him to be gentle, he simply needed him to be here.

“The Ravens aren’t allowed to befriend other teams.” Jean’s understatement was all but precise. Maybe he thought Neil didn’t know that much about the Ravens’ truth, or maybe he simply didn’t bother pinning down accuracy. It was enough of an answer.

“So you went from brothers to hating each other?”

Jean winced, and though he didn’t see his expression, he felt the tense way his hands stilled on Neil’s hair. He tugged on it as a warning, but Neil didn’t care.

“We don’t hate each other,” he corrected coldly.

“Then why.”

“Why what? Stop talking about things you know nothing about, you ignorant child. You’re getting on my nerves.”

It earned him one of Neil’s satisfied smiles, but it was soon drowned in the water flow. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine these hands working soap on his shoulders were his mother’s.

He didn’t expect Jean to go on when he’d closed up so easily, but he did anyway. “Kevin betrayed us. I cannot forgive that.” At this, Neil’s eyes flashed open; but he stayed in clean silence for a while to process the words. Maybe he was starting to really know Jean, and whatever loneliness his anger tried to bury, or maybe it was all too familiar of a tactic, but it stung nonetheless. Jean was trying to replace a truth by another, to convince himself he was alright. It was as sad as it was unnerving.

“He didn’t,” Neil snapped. He thought about the white scars on the back of Kevin’s hand, the way his face twisted with fear when Andrew threatened to let Riko come to them to take him back. Whatever this had been, it wasn’t betrayal; it was survival. It was hope. Two things Neil knew perfectly despite himself. “Running was the only choice he had.” He could imagine Andrew’s cool voice explaining all the ways these words sounded wrong, how many possibilities there were regardless of whether Neil wanted to face the reality of them or not. In Kevin’s case, though, he could hardly stomach any other scenario.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Jean conceded, but it didn’t sound like a victory; it was the first step toward something bigger, something brutal he didn’t want to taste. He felt like backpedaling out of the conversation, but he was the one to initiate it, and Jean’s feelings were rarely shown—it was an opportunity to see through him and he didn’t know when he could have such an open window on his fractured soul again.

Jean stopped washing his back and pulled on his hair to tilt his head downward under the flow. Neil closed his eyes a little too late, and soap burned so quick he choked.

“But it’s not enough.” It sounded selfish, but it wasn’t something he could blame Jean for. He’d been abandoned again and again; selfishness, at this point, was a luxury that required bravery. Jean had never spoken for himself. He let him do so. “He left without a word.” What Neil heard, however, was more along the lines of: _he didn’t take me with him._

Of course it was more complicated than that. Edgar Allan still had his contract and if he wasn’t in enough of a bad shape to be taken care of, he was still expected to be on the court. Neil shuddered under the flow, eyes red with pain and chest heavy with anger.

An idea flashed in the corner of his mind, but he slowly shook his head.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Jean started as he poked some rice around with a fork. None of them really felt like eating, but they had twenty minutes left before they’d have to step on the court eventually, and when they would, going on an empty stomach wouldn’t do them any good.

Neil, though, thought perhaps he would be just fine if he didn’t have anything to throw up at the end of the scrimmage. “So what?”

An unspoken question floated in the space between them. Neil didn’t look up, neither did Jean. For a moment of quiet Neil figured he’d be fine just leaving his question unanswered, but they knew better than to play each other the cold shoulder. They were distraction for one another, the only they could afford. It was better than nothing.

“So you’re number three.” At that, Neil looked up. So that’s what he’d been thinking about lately. Maybe he’d always known. Maybe he’d always reminded himself as he woke up in the morning, that his ranking only depended on his predecessor’s disappearance. Neil comforted himself by thinking, surprisingly honestly, that number four would have suited Jean much better.

“So I’ve been told.” He abandoned his plate for a clementine, and patiently peeled the skin off of it. Jean watched closely as he did, eyes thoughtful and face twisted in an unreadable expression. “It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve your ranking,” Neil said eventually. Their silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but every second of it had Neil’s skin crawling with guilt and something else, something he couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t uneasiness and it wasn’t quite shame. “You’re much more talented than I am.”

Jean snorted, but there was no joy in it. “Wonder why, when you’ve disappeared for years and abandoned your position.” He didn’t say he’d be as terrible of a striker as Neil was a backliner, but Neil still heard it in his silence. “It’s not what I meant anyway.”

“What, then?” Neil split the clementine in half and hesitated a short moment before offering one to Jean. He studied the open palm with distrust, then picked it up, as cautiously as Neil knew he would. Somehow it wasn’t even suspicion, it was grace. Jean had this way of moving, of talking—that gave away a background and a story. He didn’t know what, but Jean held his shoulders straight and his chin high, and it was all he needed. Watching him split the half into quarters was almost as curious as watching him clean their plates when Neil’s hands were too injured.

He sighed, more thoughtful than exhausted, though he surely was. “It’s not that. It would have been nice to have a pair.”

Now that Kevin was long gone, it was Jean’s role to stick with Riko. They both were aware that Riko had less restraint with him than he did with Kevin; if anything, Jean was a good he intended to benefit from. A bargain, a business deal. It was as sickening as it was gruesome, but Neil couldn’t pity him—he pretty much was the same. At least, in Riko’s twisted and tiny world.

“Yeah,” he conceded, imagining that, if he’d been stuck here when he was ten, he’d have joyfully enjoyed Jean’s arrival. The pair-based Raven system was only beneficial for those who had a partner; Jean was like an odd piece in a puzzle that didn’t quite fit anywhere. He blamed it on Kevin’s departure, but then again, he was partly responsible. Neil tried not to feel guilty for Jean’s loneliness, and figured he was worthy of attention from many athletes given his status and his skill. Jean was also smarter than he was given credit for, and he was as easy on the eyes as Kevin was. He couldn’t possibly imagine a life of contempt for him—then reminded himself that Raven’s mentality was constant competition and judgment. “Would have been nice.” Neil wasn’t used to being nice and to admit things, but those were things he was getting good at from befriending Jean. He wasn’t sure if he’d bring this home, or if it was strictly reserved to Jean—not that he could confirm his theory on other Ravens, and not that he cared, either.

They finished eating in silence, and didn’t share a single glance when they washed their plates.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Neil managed at last. “For what you did on the court earlier.”

He remembered distinctly the way Jean’s body froze when they approached him, the way he guarded Neil like a shield, the way Andrew would have if faced with danger. He remembered the growled warning and Riko’s crazy smile cutting its way to his lips, satisfied. They both got punished, but it was a step closer to freedom.

“You taught me how to be brave.” Jean was putting his pride aside and they both knew it. Oddly, Neil thought, he’d never seemed prouder than this very moment.

“No,” he corrected as he looked away. For an escape, perhaps. This was a bit of unexpected honesty he wasn’t sure he could deal with. “You already were way before I came around.”

By staying, by trying, by surviving.

Jean nodded, accepting whatever truce they had come to. His eyes locked with Neil’s, and they held on fiercely, not really wanting to go back to the quiet and terrifying sense of loneliness they both knew on their side. They knew Riko was waiting on the other side of the door, and they knew the height of the cuffs, the chilliness of his blades, the way Neil’s voice would choke on pain and pride at the same time, refusing to bend. Somehow they had accepted that. What they couldn’t let go of, however, was what usually followed: Jean walking back to his room in silence, and Neil passing out on his lonely side of the room. One far from the other, yet closer than anyone.

He didn’t know when they’d crossed these lines. It wasn’t love, and it wasn’t exactly friendship, but it was such a tired and loyal form of presence that Neil sometimes ached at the thought of going back to Palmetto without him. It’d take days to get used to Jean’s absence, and he couldn’t even imagine what sort of blank loneliness Jean would have to go through to get over it. A bond, whatever it was; an alliance, unexpected as it was necessary; more than that, a level of intimacy Neil had forgotten could exist.

He’d only shown his scars to Abby. Andrew was the only one after that to have put a hand on them. Yet none of these secrets given up mattered when Jean knew his skin by heart and without looking, putting him back together piece by piece and day after day, cleaning up the wounds, bringing Neil back to his feet whenever he fell, tripped, got pushed back by unruly teammates. Jean never orally protested, but after a while, he learned to recognize the sharp warning of anger he directed the other Ravens when they took advantage of Neil’s weaknesses and sent him back to the ground.

At first he’d guessed it was selfish, because Neil’s weakness was considered his, and he didn’t want to lose his ranking for a big-headed child who was too proud to kneel. Then, however, he started to recognize the exhausting process of guilt, of caring for someone other than the self. He’d gone through that with the Foxes, though, due to long exposure and tiny bits of secrets given away here and there. Jean didn’t owe him anything, but he still felt responsible, and that was all he needed to try and get back up.

Jean looked up, breaking the contact like he knew how to. It mostly left them feeling like it had never happened, like they’d imagined things. The way his shaky, broken and fearful voice sounded next brought him back to their hidden reality.

“Fais ce qu’il dit, pour une fois.2” Neil felt like protesting, knowing obeying Riko was only profitable for Jean; but he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He simply stared back, agape, waiting for some twisted sense of anger to bring him back to life, but he didn’t budge. Jean took this as a half-hearted yes, and pushed his shoulders toward the door. Lingering in the space between them floated a timid, half-spoken: “s’il te plait.”

A prayer, a pleading cry, a silent wish for things to end with a little less blood. Jean’s nightmares were made of Riko’s anger and Neil’s broken cries of pain. This night he wanted to look at his palms and see no blood. He wanted to sleep and he wanted to dream, no matter how cold and lonely it was.

 

* * *

 

“Please don’t tell me how crazy it sounds,” Neil warned as he stared at the ground. He couldn’t feel his legs, and cleaning up the court after such harmful trainings was going to be the death of him. He held a palm to his abdomen, pressing on whatever bruise he’d gotten in the evening. Somehow it didn’t make the pain go away, but it made it bearable.

“What did you do again?” Jean snarled, cold with fear. He didn’t want to pay for Neil’s mistakes, although he had since day one.

“Nothing,” he cleared himself without bothering to look back at him. Jean didn’t avert his gaze, however. “A few days ago I got an idea.” He couldn’t tell how many days—the lines between day and night were blurry, and the time he’d spent at Evermore was more of an endless, vague nightmare than a date of arrival and a date of departure. He couldn’t tell the trainings apart, as much as he couldn’t tell the days. “But…” he sighed, exhausted. He didn’t want to think about these things, but Jean’s warmth, so close yet so far, was almost impossible to deny.

Jean got up from the bench and stopped short before him. He crossed his arms in silent warning but didn’t say anything, so Neil went on anyway.

“S’il te plait, fais pas comme si t’avais pas envie de partir d’ici.3” Jean didn’t expected the discreet French, and he much less expected the punch to his guts. His arms unfolded and fell flat, trembling a little where Neil could guess he was trying to stand his ground. He didn’t deny it, but his face was white with anger and fear. He was weighing the pros and the cons to let him talk further, he was trying to decide whether he wanted to cut Neil open for daring to say those words, suggest such a dangerous thing, voice it when it had always been a floating impression no one had to acknowledge, or whether he wanted to nod and find comfort in Neil’s hopeful strength.

Somehow, he did neither. “T’en as envie autant que moi. Bien plus encore maintenant que quand Kevin est parti.4” It was the second time he was left behind, and he feared that it’d be too much for Jean. Maybe that was enough of a reason to keep going. “Ton contrat n’est pas infaillible, si ? Il doit… il y a,” he corrected with a fierce certainty that got Jean stepping backwards, “un moyen de te faire sortir de cette prison.5”

Jean’s eyes were wet with anger, but his delicate features were barely tense. He was fighting, Neil fought, warring reason and heart. He didn’t believe in whatever loyalty he gave Riko; the loyalty he’d given Neil, day after day, was more Jean Moreau than anything he’d ever seen before that. He was strong and he was brave, and he was smart enough to know he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted to survive, he had to bow his head and obey. Neil didn’t have such hopes for a survival, oh he knew too well that he wouldn’t get to shine as bright as Kevin or Jean would. Evermore was only a brief moment of his short life, and it would end soon. Everything would end soon. He saw no reason to bow his head and obey.

“Qu’est-ce que tu suggères ?6” Jean finally tried, voice shaking with doubt. What Neil was offering was a way out of some sort, and he couldn’t bring himself to hope that much. That he could understand. Even more so when he had to say the words that followed:

Neil didn’t want to break anything valuable. A hand, a knee, a shin; too precious for an Exy player to touch. He didn’t want Jean to suffer, either, but this seemed like the only way. He swallowed dry, finally meeting Jean’s eyes as an attempt to not back away from the thought. It hurt to imagine Jean screaming with pain, but it hurt even more to imagine him left behind when Neil would get to leave and Jean wouldn’t. Of course he was expected to come back in spring, but Neil was the only one to know he’d be dead by then. If he wanted to help Jean, it was now.

Somehow he didn’t need to say the words. Neil’s tired, saddened smile said it all, and Jean stepped closer to grab his jersey collar. “T’es fou ? Putain, t’es fou.7” His teeth were clenched with fear, but when he let go, he didn’t leave. “Et puis quoi, toi ? T’es même pas capable de tenir sur tes jambes. Tu peux à peine te lever du banc sans mon aide.8”

Neil snorted denial, and pushed two palms flat against Jean’s torso to make him step back. “Watch me,” he said, and used momentum to push himself off the changing bench. Jean knew better, and when Neil’s knees gave up under the weight, weakened by the wounds and the pain and the exhaustion, Jean slipped a fierce arm around his waist.

“You fucker, won’t you ever learn,” he growled low, discontented. Neil didn’t say much, and grabbed Jean’s t-shirt to keep himself upright. Jean almost threw him back on the bench and stood before him, arms crossed, strengthened with the fact that he was right. “If you’re serious about this shit, then you’re crazier than I gave you credit for. You won’t drag me down your hell, Josten.”

“Think about it,” Neil said, and though it sounded like he was about to protest, it gave way to a comfortable silence. “Please just think about it.”

Jean swallowed and turned away. He didn’t want to go to these extreme lengths, and Neil certainly didn’t want Jean to get beaten to death. If he wanted to be taken out of Evermore, it had to be serious enough that Jean might not be able to recover. It was a risk taken, and more than that, it was a risk Neil wasn’t sure he wanted to take. If he was the one to bring Jean to the ground for his sake, he had to stop exactly in time to be sure Jean would survive. He didn’t have that kind of knowledge or experience, always so close to death he almost couldn’t imagine a fight without a corpse. There had to be blood, and there had to be a lot of it. He would never forgive himself for accidentally bringing Jean to his death.

“Change out and leave me alone,” Jean said, and Neil obeyed. He realized Jean was the only one he obeyed to so easily, not to make things easier, but because he didn’t really mind. Not anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know he gave me advice?” The question was light and distracted, almost too light and too distracted to be important. Then again, most of their conversations were all but meaningless, and Jean perked up instantly when spoken to.

“Who?” he asked without thinking, then, a few seconds later, nodded to himself. “Kevin,” he deduced.

“Kevin,” Neil confirmed quietly. He gave a rough shake to his racquet, not liking the way it weighed his weakened arm down. Frustration was starting to bite his patience off, not that he had any in the first place. At least they’d both struck the deal to get up an hour and a half earlier than the standard Raven schedule, both to escape cold sleeplessness and to try and get Neil where he needed to be. The better he’d become, the less they’d be punished. Until they’d get good enough to threaten the king—and then holding back would be as painful for their ego as it would be for their skill.

“What did he say? To not talk to me? I guess he was right.” He laughed, but it was all bitterness and self-loathing. Neil didn’t comment on it.

“He actually said you’d help me.” When Jean looked up, a brow arched in obvious mistrust, he explained: “If I help you first.”

It took a moment, but Jean eventually nodded. “He’s right.” That, he’d already figured out by now. Jean had become a curious entity, not quite a friend but not quite a rival either. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would feel when he’d see him next, for the first time outside of Evermore. He hoped it would be on the court, because at least then they wouldn’t have to talk. Then again, Jean was a backliner, which meant he’d play on the same area as Neil. He shook the softness off his mind, reminded that he couldn’t afford to go soft on Jean, be it on a court or anywhere else, just because they’d shared the same corner of a hell and sported the same bruises.

“Focus,” Jean reminded almost mechanically, and it reminded Neil so much of Kevin that he couldn’t help but snort. “I’m helping you because that’s the only thing I can do.”

“Yeah, but you’re helping me still.” His attempts at denial were worthless; by now, Neil had come to know so much about Jean that his words weren’t necessary anymore. He idly thought they would make a great pair on the court if they could only perform in perfect health and against the right team. It was frightening how quick he’d been to corner Jean, when he was still trying to figure Andrew and his brother out. He blamed it on the caginess of Evermore, on the appalling intimacy between the pairs, on the hits he put up with every evening when Riko tried to put him back in place and Jean couldn’t do much else than watch.

“If you don’t keep me from scoring, I might stop helping you.” His warning was as fierce as it was useless. Neil knew very well that Jean would stick around even when Neil would disappoint, even when Neil would fail. He didn’t have a choice, and they’d settled to try and makes things as smooth and easy as possible. It wasn’t a practical thing to do, not when Neil’s fingers burned when they held the stick, and certainly not when Neil’s legs gave away whenever he ran. He couldn’t even hit half his usual speed.

He would have gladly run as fast as he could to try and impress Jean, to make him shut up for a minute and show that he had skills Ravens hadn’t—things they couldn’t and wouldn’t take away from him. But he didn’t need to. Jean’s eyes every time Neil pushed himself past half-court only followed with caution and fatigue, and where he should have been mocking him for not being able to run at all, he could only resent the reality of him.

Neil was a runaway; disappearing was a second-nature. His legs were more important to him than his hands were, no matter how much he loved Exy. Not being able to run anymore meant he couldn’t escape, and it forced the light out of his gaze day after day, making him stand still against his will. A runaway glued to the court, a desperate case that not even Renee would bet on.


	2. I'm good, I'm gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Neil doesn't have the strength to hold his ground anymore, Jean isn't sure he's brave enough for the two of them.

“Forget about it,” Neil whispered almost to himself as he rested his forehead against the cold tiles. Scorching water splashed down his back and the coolness of the shower wall almost hurt, but he didn’t budge. Eyes closed and breath unsteady, it was probably the first time Neil doubted he could hold his ground until the deadline. He was so close to giving up he could almost touch it, almost feel it with timid fingertips as if trying to reach out to a scared animal.

“About what?” Jean only asked, but they didn’t need to clarify. Both of them knew too well. They knew too well. When Neil’s silence began to feel cold and disinterested, Jean couldn’t help but try again. It wasn’t a request for an answer, it was a wordless plea for Neil to hang on, to talk, to open his eyes and keep breathing. He needed him to. He couldn’t stomach the alternative. Sticking around Neil when he was such a mouthy child, strong-headed troublemaker was dangerous—sticking around Neil when he didn’t feel it in him to fight back anymore was even more so. “What’s that about?”

He pressed the question with an irritated look, though he knew Neil wasn’t looking. The weight of it finally startled Neil into unease, and he tilted his head to the side as if trying to dodge Jean’s helpless gaze. Jean turned to him, unmoving under the heat of the flowing water. It splashed against his tense shoulders and slid down his stomach, hurriedly forcing its way to the ground, when Neil sat without a word.

Today, no more than one shower separated them. They’d given up on pretending avoiding each other could be a thing as soon as they’d realized cornering each other was beneficial. They only had each other, whether they wanted it or not—and there were things, so many things they couldn’t tell to anyone but one another.

“What,” Neil sighed, and it almost sounded like a threat. He’d found himself dangerously close to slipping away, a mental escape necessary as Riko’s torture went on and the Ravens’ exhausting trainings drained his energy; each minute forgetting what Neil Josten stood for and slowly crawling back to the darkness Nathaniel Wesninski called home. He didn’t simply linger in it—he thrived. Violence and ruthlessness were no strangers to the Wesninkis, and Neil thought to himself, quite tiredly, that drifting back to his original self was unavoidable when Jean and him had first met as such. It was going back to the origins, it was relaxing shoulders and let hungry hands fall flat against thighs and hips, it was giving up on his empire of lies minute after minute after minute.

He could almost hear it in Jean’s tone—the plea to get back up and try a little harder. Behind a fierce frown and a scolding, accented voice, lied a terrible mixture of distress and urgency. Jean had done a great job at holding himself together before Neil came in the picture. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Watching Neil fall apart was almost as disbelieving as it was satisfying, and he started to wonder if he could take the horror for the both of them. He doubted it—strongly. Whatever Neil had said about Jean’s supposed bravery had to be a lie, if he stood so helplessly before a careless Neil, a corpse before its hour.

“You’re usually such a desperate case,” he said, and it had the disquieting bitterness of a premature _goodbye_.

“What am I now, then?” Neil laughed, but it was all joyless and empty. It could almost ricochet against the walls, echo endlessly around them—it sounded like sheer madness, and Jean shivered. “I’m tired.”

“You are,” he conceded. But with that, he added, with the stressed words of someone who doesn’t know what to do next: “And I am, too. More than you can imagine.”

“So what, are you asking me to beat you to death now? I thought we’d handled that topic already. You made it pretty clear I was out of my mind and you gave me enough time to figure it out by myself. It’s over now.”

Jean flinched. It was almost nothing—he lost his balance, stepped back in silence, switched back again and again from nervous frowns to angry, pinched lips. _It’s over now._ Watch over Neil and patch him back together after hours of abuse was a tolerable thing. Foster a lamenting soul, feed it hope when he barely had any, was impossible.

“Get up,” he said. It was gentle at first, like a prayer. He wondered if Jean believed in God. He didn’t have time to linger on the thought, because Jean stepped closer with a dangerous, sick rush to his voice. It wavered a bit as it fought for bravery, and when Jean’s voice echoed again, Neil jumped a little. It was closer, louder, and it had all the fierceness he’d ever hoped to see in him yet never caught. “I said, get up.” Neil made no move to obey, but he did open his eyes, staring uselessly at the too-close wall as if to get his grasp back to reality. If Jean had known better, he’d have realized Neil’s stance wasn’t entirely _giving up_ , it was _arrogance_ and _violence_ and _ghastliness_. It was Nathaniel Wesninski, king of the eyesore; murderous son of a murderer.

“Fucking leave!” he yelled, voice so harsh it burned its throat on the way out. His nostrils flared open dangerously, following the jerky rhythm of his breath, and if Neil’s skin was red from the heat by now, it wasn’t entirely because of the water. He was hell in the body of innocence, horror hid so deep it could hardly be seen until too late.

Jean didn’t move. He did feel startled, and he leaned backwards as if about to step back if needed. If Neil gave any sign of hurting him. That’s what got to him—Jean wasn’t afraid of him, but of what he could do to him. In this very moment, Riko and Neil were more than alike, they were shadows of one another, and the livid terror lingering on Jean’s face held every hope Neil had for it to be an overreaction to a halt.

“I’m not going to waste my time on you, just so you know,” Jean warned. It was resentful, and though it stung Neil like a hard punch in the guts, he couldn’t blame it. It was betrayal from the least expected corner, it was being less a riot and more black and all-steel anger. “Get a grip on yourself or deal with the consequences.” From there, and to a stranger’s ignorant ears, it could have sounded like a lesson given to a warlike child. It wasn’t, oh, it wasn’t.

Jean’s face had become so pale he looked sick. And looking at Neil’s tense and untrusting, ready-to-fight curled up body, he thought he might actually throw up.

“I think I ought to congratulate you, Josten. Of all people I didn’t think you’d be the most disappointing. Enraging, problematic and pig-headed, that surely. But disappointing? That’s low, even from you.” He didn’t bother adding to his vocal hurt and turned away, hitting the shower flow to a halt on his way out. Just like that, Neil was left alone with the terrible echo of Jean’s words, and no matter how angry they did sound, all Neil could retain from them was the helpless fatigue of being abandoned once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Neil’s physical weariness and with his will to fight back slowly wearing out, his injuries didn’t fare better. Each morning it was a little more painful to drift back to reality, to get out of bed, to stand on his own two feet. Each evening it was a little more difficult to hold back tears, to drown in an ever so deep ocean of pain and loneliness. He wanted the Foxes, but he found himself unwilling to hold on to them. He wanted freedom, but he found himself unable to be eager. He wanted to be proud, but he found himself incapable of repressing low pleas for it to stop. There was nothing left of Neil Josten—only crumbs of a being that had never really existed in the first place.

Food tasted flavorless and sounds were constantly muffled by the haze of unconsciousness. He could recognize the warmth and the weight of Jean’s arms hauling him up and toward the changing room, cursing quietly as he forced Neil’s uniform on his bruised and bloody limbs. He thought he felt his feet dragging on the floor when Jean pulled him to his side and ushered him up on the court. All of that, though—he couldn’t be sure. It was all a dream, deprived of light and time stamps, deprived of all the normally clear and distinctive marks of reality. He felt like he was out of it, and it never got better.

Eventually, it became quite clear that Neil’s idea to get Jean out of here was officially forgotten. Left behind, unconsidered. Neil had changed his mind, and he couldn’t deal with the weight of guilt thinking about every second Jean would have to spend here when he left. They didn’t bring it up, but sometimes, when Neil was conscious enough to look at Jean—and really see him—their eyes would speak for themselves. There was anger on one side and guilt on the other, and they banged together constantly.

 

* * *

 

 

When Riko finally left the room, Jean waited as long as he could before turning his attention back to the half-corpse left on the mattress. He tried, yet couldn’t—as if controlling the damage and making sure Neil was alright nonetheless was all he could think about. He could have chosen to step back and emotionally detach himself, let Riko do whatever he had to do with blades and words, one as sharp as the other; but the thought of abandoning Neil like Neil had abandoned himself was unbearable. If the kid couldn’t save face and take care of him anymore, then he’d do it. There was no other option and no other answer. Neil’s flesh was his own, and whenever he watched as Riko cut ruthless lines along his abdomen, pressed hard thumbs in his blisters and yanked pitilessly at his hair, Jean had to breathe a little deeper. He could almost feel the hurt reverting back, the same bruises and the same cuts appearing on his own bruised body as they did on Neil’s. It wasn’t, of course. But the illusion—not so illusory—that they were linked beyond mundane comprehension, responsible of one another, the only ally they’d ever have; it was strong enough to blind and deafen him.

He softly walked up to Neil’s bed, sat on the edge after a brief and gloomy onceover. He laced his fingers together, elbows on his spaced out knees, staring blankly at the ground as if it’d provide the miracle he needed to save them both. Neil’s unnerving, feverish tone had faded, day after day, to the point where he lied there without a word, breathing barely distinguishable. Sometimes Jean had to check his pulse to make sure he wasn’t dead—the rest of the time, Neil’s lips curled in a terrible attempt to contain the pain, and it was enough to remind he was alive.

“I’m taking back what I said about you.” Neil didn’t move, too tired and sore to even be able to. Jean didn’t either, content to just look at the floor until he’d start to see black spots and moving shadows. “About you and I, and the Raven pair we’d have made. I’m taking it all back.”

He didn’t need to look at Neil’s cheekbone to reinforce his words. It felt sickening enough just knowing the gaze was there, hiding red skin and black ink and hopelessness.

“Stop,” Neil whispered, and his voice cracked mid-word. It didn’t sound aggressive, nor did it sound like a warning, but Jean quieted down anyway. It’s not that those things were things Neil didn’t want to hear; if anything, they expressed Jean’s clear-headedness and consideration. It’s more that it hurt to listen to Jean’s voice, tinted with an anger they weren’t quite sure who it was directed against, cracking whenever he opened his lips like somehow there was nothing left to do anymore.

“Can I patch you up?” he asked without looking. Neil moved and he heard the rustle of fabric, likely the sheets he was lying on, and almost jumped with surprise when he felt a weak palm rest flat against the arch of his back.

“Tomorrow,” he said, eyes heavy-lidded like they couldn’t hold themselves open, like they weren’t strong enough to see anymore. It was a prayer, quiet and exhausted, and Jean took it without force.

He didn’t sigh and he didn’t nod. He didn’t reply and he didn’t go on. He simply stayed there, on the edge of Neil’s—Kevin’s?—made bed, staring at the ground until, eventually, Neil’s hand fell back against the bed, drifting back to an unconsciousness and sleep that only violence could warrant.

 

* * *

 

 

“Like that,” Jean guided, but before they could register what was happening, Neil collided into him and they both stumbled, feet tripping over one another, searching for balance until they eventually hit the ground. The court’s floor was hard and ruthless, and Jean cursed quietly as his skull bumped around his helmet, suddenly grateful for the mandatory protection gear. It wasn’t long before he was reminded of the sore and barely-moving weight on his side, sprawled on his torso yet twisted in a way that screamed pain and discomfort. “Are you alright?” He asked lightly, like he’d feared that perhaps Neil would be too out of it to answer, but Neil’s faint voice snarled back after seconds.

“I won’t be until you haul me off your stinking body.” It was obnoxious and Neil-like enough that he didn’t bother getting offended, and softly pushed Neil’s deconstructed corpse off his own. Neil’s back hit the ground in a soft thump, and they simply lied there to catch their breath. “Am I getting better?” he finally asked. It felt like an eternity before Jean answered in his turn.

“At being a pain in the ass, or at crushing your own teammates? To both, I’d say you’re doing pretty great. Your progress is astounding, more than one could hope for. You’re gifted.” Jean’s bitter tone had nothing on Neil, though, and eventually he recognized the soft cackling of Jean’s quiet, self-satisfied laughter. It was a timid and fearful thing, but hearing it was enough. Neil tilted his head to the side and watched as Jean’s laughter lingered a second or two, Jean's eyes stuck on the Plexiglas ceiling.

“I’m wasting my time,” Neil concluded for himself. It wasn’t quite a self-directed critic, it was more of a conclusion he hadn’t thought of before. Jean went quiet and looked at him, briefly, before sitting upright and sighing to recover from the fall.

“No, you are not. Whatever you are doing on the Ravens’ court is going to stick with you. I don’t get why Riko’s doing this. He’s just helping you and your damned Foxes.”

Neil could have chosen to linger on Jean’s confession that he was getting better, despite all the obstacles thrown their way. Sometimes he could retrieve his speed, sometimes he could not; but whatever he learned—mistakes more often than not—was invaluable. Jean was right. He easily found the path back to reality, though, and killed the mood to root out the evil right away.

“He’s investing, for the future. He thinks I’ll be back in spring and live up to his expectations. Be a rightful investment. He’s simply handing over an aperçu to make sure I know my place, and giving himself a head-start for next year by prepping me.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not a dog,” Neil reminded him.

“Sure,” Jean shrugged unsympathetically. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s expecting you to come back to us.” Us, in Jean’s mouth, didn’t sound as awful as it should have been. Us meant the Ravens, us meant Evermore. Us meant Riko and more than anything, us meant giving up on anything he cared about: his place among the Foxes, and the Foxes themselves, no matter how much of a fractured and tiring mess they were. Us, however, also meant their unexpected alliance, and their wobbly yet fierce duo on the court. Their performance was terrible, but it was to be expected from a walking corpse and its babysitter. They didn’t have the means to play well, they weren’t given enough fairness to prove themselves on the court when their legs were cut off before they even stepped on it. Then again, the Ravens were never known for their sportsmanship.

Neil hesitated for a brief, startling moment, to tell Jean the truth. To tell him that in a few months he’d be dead, forgotten, and that he took comfort in the idea of never coming back. Riko would hate the ghost of Neil Josten until his very last breath, knowing he couldn’t reach him, knowing he’d failed. Neil Josten was a Fox: wild, untamable, strong-willed and smarter than he looked. He didn’t belong to anyone. But he did belong with the Foxes, that, he was sure of.

It was a short window of clear-headedness before his injuries would hurt too bad, and most importantly, before evening came and Riko would get off on slicing his flesh up again and again. He enjoyed it as he could, sitting up although painstakingly, well aware of Jean’s gaze lingering as he did, weighing the pros and cons of helping him. Jean didn’t budge, still, and he was glad he didn’t. Somehow it meant Neil Josten wasn’t completely gone, and that he could still sit up on his own. He didn’t know anymore what drove his will to survive anymore: coming home to the Foxes, or not being alone in hell. Jean’s presence did more than he could admit, even when they resented each other.

“Maybe,” Neil simply said.

He didn’t say he’d be dead by then, nor did he say that he’d bring the crushing guilt of abandoning Jean at Evermore with him to the grave.

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever thought about it? You know… coming back home. Being with your family, your parents, staying there until you’re legal. Living a life of horrors and secrets but within familiar walls.”

Jean shrugged. The concept of home didn’t matter much to him anymore, not when he didn’t have a choice. “These are familiar walls.”

“I’m not talking about the Ravens,” Neil sighed. He couldn’t bear Jean’s blind loyalty to his team when they were the main antagonists of his story. Somehow Jean couldn’t see past familiarity, even when abuse and hurt and loneliness scattered all around. Neil didn’t think it was fair, and he certainly didn’t think it was sane. Jean sounded like he’d caught some twisted sort of Stockholm syndrome and he had no cure to provide.

“What are you talking about, then? You better than anyone else should know that family doesn’t mean a thing. We’re better off here than we would have been with our parents and you know that.” Neil thought of his mother’s bones buried deep on a Californian beach. He thought about her ruthless embraces and her affection, all in brutality and paranoia. He missed her more than he could tell.

“That’s not true.” He caught Jean’s eyes, expecting him to challenge his words by asking for impossible answers. But all Jean did was stare, brows frowned in incomprehension, the same way Neil would when Jean talked about his rightful place on the Ravens’ court and at Riko’s side. He thought perhaps Jean had been told so many times that his only value was trade, that his only sake was to live up to be a great investment and make up for his family’s debts, that he finally started to believe it somewhere along the way. It wasn’t as sad as it was enraging. Neil wanted Jean to fight back. “You can’t tell, because you don’t know what home is.”

“And you can?” Jean snorted with bitterness and disbelief. “An ignorant and suicidal child like you won’t teach me what place is mine. I’ve always belong here.”

“Maybe you just didn’t know you could belong somewhere else.” Neil tried to imagine him as one of the broken, fucked up Foxes and though his presence on the team felt somewhat off in his imagination, he had the terrible certainty that Jean was fit for it. “Maybe you’d be happy to belong somewhere else.”

“Where, tell me? With your miserable and mediocre Foxes? I can’t believe you even stand so low.”

“They’re way better than I am,” Neil defended.

“They are not. They aren’t worth anything. You’re supposed to be with us. You’re supposed to make it to Court.” Neil wondered, for a fleeting moment, if Jean really did believe all his words, or if half of it was only tainted by jealousy. What kind, Neil didn’t know. Perhaps he envied his half-freedom, or perhaps did he simply want Neil to stay at his sides. He wasn’t presumptuous and stupid enough to assume things without being told so.

“I will,” Neil lied. Kevin’s hopes for him were already too much to bear when all he could afford was a gloomy future of lies and death, and Jean’s only added to the mess by bringing him further down. “And you will, too. It doesn’t mean you’re forced to stay here until then.”

“I’m not joining the Foxes,” he turned down with an arrogant laughter.

“There are other teams,” Neil reminded him, although cold and upset. He was more frustrated than offended, and maybe that’s why he made a point to convince him. If he could talk Andrew into doing things he didn’t want to do in the first place, he could more than probably persuade Jean the same. As far as he knew, Andrew was much harder to handle than Jean. Then again, Andrew was made of rage and violence, and Jean was a crippled mess of loneliness and disarray.

Confusion stirred every feature on his face, and he idly stared at the freckles on Jean's cheekbones, surrounding his renowned tattooed number. He was struck, though uselessly, by the realization Jean and Andrew shared the same team number.

“You shouldn’t take such risks and talk about such things. Not here, not now and not ever. You’re stupid,” Jean dismissed him as he got up. Neil followed, but as he stumbled and almost fell back into the void, Jean’s steady arms slung around his back.

They didn’t talk about it anymore, but somehow he felt better knowing the seed had been planted.

 

* * *

 

 

He knew it was a bad idea before they even stepped through the door. They could have just gone to one of the dens when Neil made it clear he needed to lie down, but neither of them wanted to deal with the other Ravens. Morning practice had been disastrous, and they couldn’t help but resent the looks which followed them everywhere they went, heavy with contempt and a bold, choking sort of disdain.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Neil said as he closed his eyes with a sigh. He wasn’t one to point out authority and rules, but it felt like a dangerous thing to ignore in Evermore. He could barely hold his Exy racquet on the court; he didn’t want to risk injuring himself more than necessary.

“It’s my room,” Jean discarded as he relaxed his shoulders. He stated the obvious as if Neil was being stupid, but it didn’t shake the anxiety out of Neil.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he repeated. When Jean didn’t reply, though, he stopped trying.

He wasn’t going to fight back, not when Jean’s dark room was unexpectedly reassuring. They were alone and the door was closed—Neil had wanted to lock it, which Jean had ignored with an exasperated glower, knowing too well Ravens weren’t allowed any bit of intimacy. Locking dorm doors would be unforgivable.

“So what are we doing here?” Neil asked, but it felt more like provocation than curiosity. “Are we supposed to nap or talk about childhood memories? I got plenty of them,” he went on, bitter with a smile. He didn’t really want to tell Jean about all the times Nathan Wesninski had proved to be a terrible father, but it still appeared satisfying to annoy him.

“You’re the one who wanted to rest. I can bring you back to the Ravens’ den if you want, I’m sure they’ll be terribly pleased to have you around.” Though Jean’s words were only joking, it sounded like a threat. It didn’t come from Jean, however—Neil himself knew they’d be pleased, indeed, and he couldn’t bring himself to imagine what they’d say or do. It was terrible enough to befriend them on the court, if befriend ever was the right word for it. They only crashed and yelled and collided in fierce warnings and ruthless insults. Last time Neil had tripped, halfway to unconsciousness, one of the Ravens on his own team stepped on his ankle, and they both knew better than to think it was less than a half-accident.

“Never mind,” Neil said. He was only trying to rile him, as he knew he could; but Jean bringing Neil to his room was enough of a risk for Neil to feel grateful. Even as he said nothing, he knew Jean could feel it.

He didn’t even realize how close they were until Jean yawned and their shoulders brushed against one another, careless and exhausted—then Neil was struck with the blinding and terrifying trust he had for Jean. He couldn’t explain it, and it didn’t feel right at all: he, who’d spent his life mistrusting strangers to ensure his survival, had let his guard down from the very beginning and he hadn’t even noticed. He felt enraged, at first, and tried to roll farther from Jean, but the bed was only made for one body and he found himself thinking shying away from Jean’s indirect touch was off anyway.

Neil didn’t voice any of these thoughts, but maybe Jean had been watching all along, because uneasiness seeped through his tense frown and he looked bothered. “Why?” he simply asked, because a question less than cautious and proud and cryptic didn’t sound like them.

“It’s not you,” he whispered, weary. Neil didn’t want to go through the painstaking process of explaining his trust issues, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure where he’d have to start. There was so much to say about his struggles that there was no right way to handle it. He settled for reassurance—or apologies—as he eased back into Jean’s touch, their shoulders barely brushing before they both finally relaxed. By then, their arms were lined up against the other, warm and comforting, unmoving in the darkness.

He realized there was more to this than it seemed as he remembered Jean’s fearful eyes the other day, when he’d slipped close enough to Nathaniel to give him a terrible glimpse of it. Neil shying away from Jean’s body didn’t just mean he had a hard time letting intimacy and contact happen—it also meant, though it could be only a faint suggestion, that he didn’t trust Jean at all.

“It’s not you,” he repeated, even more quietly. He was close enough to him that he heard, however, and he felt Jean’s exhausted nod on the other side of the pillow. They had the better of an hour to kill before afternoon practice. Thinking about it sent Neil’s guts twisting, though, and he soon searched for a way to distract them both. He didn’t need to feel the tension in Jean’s forearm to know he was clenching an anxious fist.

Turns out he didn’t have to, because seconds later Jean’s voice startled him back to reality. “What are you going to do, once you leave?” He had the feeling this question hid more than its obvious answers, but he didn’t point it out.

Instead, he only shrugged. “Heal.”

Jean’s following silence was made of wordless approval and quiet worry. He didn’t really want to tell Neil he was certain nobody could take care of him the way he had, the way he would, and he wouldn’t find the right words anyway. Somehow Neil understood—talking and staring had now become useless things to do, and he felt himself choke at the realization, once again, that whatever link Jean and him shared was more intimate than he could ever imagine. They felt like two sides of the same coin, two halves of a clementine. He shivered, frightened by the idea of slipping up and letting someone get so close. Neil would have told himself not to do that mistake again, but Jean’s presence was all but bothering. It wasn’t even worth fighting it.

“What are you going to do, once I leave?” Neil returned, harsh enough that it felt like a vengeance.

Jean accepted that without a protest. “Survive.”

“How long?” Neil asked, and Jean took a moment to wonder if he meant his own survival, or Neil’s remaining time at Evermore. Both felt terrible enough that he looked away.

“Not long.”

It could have sounded like an encouragement to hold on until the end, but it only left bitterness hanging between the two. Neil leaving had somehow gone from a relief to come, to a dreadful countdown none of them really felt like holding. Neil didn’t want to face his teammates, nor did he want to explain why he’d gone; and Jean didn’t want to be left alone in his wake.

Questions twitched at the edge of Neil’s lips, but he held tight. He wanted to ask if he’d be okay, he wanted to ask if he’d thought about their past conversations on escape and hope and survival. He wanted to know if he’d gotten to Jean, if there was a chance they’d meet again—far from Evermore and far from the appalling presence of Riko. He wondered if they’d act the same towards one another, if they were out of here. Maybe Jean wouldn’t, maybe he wouldn’t even bother. Maybe Neil was only a distraction from his own pain, in which case, he wouldn’t be of any use then.

As if on cue, and somehow startling Neil once more, Jean sighed. “Don’t.”

Neil tilted his head to the side to look at him, although he couldn’t see much more than the outline of Jean’s profile in the quiet darkness. “What?” he snapped, upset and unnerved. He always had the strange impression Jean could see through him even without a glance, and it was an alarming and frightful impression to have when his very own survival depended on his ability to lie and guard himself. He felt bare and exposed whenever Jean and him were alone, and then again, it was even more of a problem that it didn’t bother him more than that.

“And certainly don’t act like I don’t know you by now. You’re so stupid.” Jean’s harsh words would have hurt anybody else, offended them in the very least—but they could only reinforce the idea of their familiarity. It was almost more than he could stand. Neil stared hard, unsettled, but Jean let out a sharp and brief laughter. “We don’t have to talk.”

Neil stared another minute, and eventually turned his eyes toward the black ceiling as well. “Fuck you,” he let out. The edge in his voice didn’t throw Jean back—they both knew what Neil’s insult barely bothered to hide. It was all fear and affection, it was all co-dependency and anxiety.

“I’ll take that,” Jean said, surprisingly passive.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fucking step back!” Neil shouted, so hard it ripped the edge of his insides as he did. It was the same anger that’d hit in the shower when Jean had pushed him too far. Now, there was nothing but possessiveness and terror.

One of the Ravens flinched, probably not expecting that much resistance from their least lively teammate. They’d gotten used to Neil’s bruised body hanging around fourth, watching bleary-eyed as he fought to stand on his own two feet, barely strong enough anymore to brace himself for violence when they all went bumping into him full force. Playing defense wasn’t a good idea when he was so out of shape, but it wasn’t like he had any choice.

Now, though, it wasn’t himself and his shaky pride that Neil tried to defend. Neither was it the Foxes, like all those times Ravens from the opposite lineup tried to shake him off by bringing his friends down. Trash-talking was a thing he could handle, yet barely bothered to handle, too affectionate of the way his fierce words slipped out of his unsuspected mouth. Today, they’d been quiet enough about it that he could have gone out of sight and out of mind, ignored and unacknowledged by the Ravens even though his half-assed play would guarantee Riko’s fury afterward.

It was Jean, sprawled on the ground, face tense with a sharp bolt of pain and eyes snapped close as if to contain it. It hadn’t taken Neil more than two seconds to swiftly react and appear between him and the rest of the Ravens, tilting his head downward as if daring them to step any closer.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” he breathed out in an unexpected bit of rage. It surprised himself as much as it did the others, and he was only slightly glad that Riko wasn’t around, probably dealing with personal problems he didn’t want to know anything about. He hoped Tetsuji was beating him fierce, he hoped Riko was going through as much pain as Jean was. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t Riko who’d collided into Jean and thrown him hard enough against the walls that they all heard his head snap back against it dangerously. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of them hurting Jean in his stead.

“Now look at that, the Fox finally has found some spine,” someone whistled from the back. He was far enough that Neil didn’t spot which body it was, but the row of sweaty players right in front of him all looked uncertain and caught off guard.

Neil didn’t reply, and instead settled for glaring at whoever let their eyes drift to Jean’s crumpled form, holding his own stomach like it could ease the pain. Most of them couldn’t even get a glance at him with Neil’s unyielding body standing in front, anyway, and he felt content just standing there on his wobbly, sore legs, waiting for them to back off.

Ravens grew annoyed as the silence stretched out, delaying practice more than it should—but none of them moved. Neil breathed out, still winded from the last minutes of the game, but he didn’t give any sign of returning to his place and nobody pushed him. Without Riko’s fierce grip on the team, it felt unsure as to who could lead their short tempers, and Neil’s eyes had more of Nathaniel’s than they’d ever had of Neil’s himself.

Nobody’d really questioned the sudden shift of appearance, and Riko’s latest stunt had him going back to his original looks; but he could see now the effect his chilly blue eyes had on the closest Ravens, far from the gentle innocence of a brown-eyed Neil Josten.

Neil Josten couldn’t protect Jean, but Nathaniel could—and Nathaniel would.

Another sharp insult came from the opposite fourth and finally, Ravens started moving, though slow and cautious. Eventually, Neil turned around and controlled the damage as he glanced over Jean’s hurt body barely sitting upright against the wall. He could have lingered on the redness on his exhausted, sweaty face, or he could have looked at the tight grip his hand had on his own jersey to stomach the pain of the unexpected blow that’d preceded his fall—but all he could stare at was Jean’s surprised, shaken gaze, full of an uncertainty that broke his heart.

He made the quiet promise of not letting anyone hurt Jean again; not in his stead; not when he was around to witness.

He made the quiet promise of getting Jean out of here, no matter what it’d take.

 

* * *

 

Jean sighed and the back of his head softly hit the headrest. Neil watched, though hardly conscious; Riko’s response to his fierce show of support hadn’t gone too well. It didn’t help that it’d brought Neil the last surge of rebellion he needed, and he didn’t know how to apologize for the terrible things Jean had to witness in his fault. Neil’s damage was proportional to his temper, and now that Nathaniel had resurfaced, it was only a guarantee to hurt and hurt and hurt.

“Shit,” Jean sighed again. It took Neil a few seconds to realize he wasn’t sighing—he was trying to control his breath, trying not to cry.

It shook him so hard he almost flinched, and he straightened up in the passenger seat. It didn’t matter how much it hurt to reach out and brush his shoulders with bandaged fingers; it didn’t matter that leaning in felt like tearing his insides apart. He found a shaky grip on Jean’s shirt and pulled, forcing him to look. Jean obeyed against his will, two breaths away from giving up—to what, Neil didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

“Look at me,” he said, even though Jean already was. It was a fierce and steady order, and Jean knew better than to play rebellious. “Jean,” he said; and that seemed to trigger whatever pain he was trying to hold back as it relinquished into a hard spasm. Neil tightened his grip, pulse racing in distress. “Jean,” he stressed, and in response, Jean snapped his head backwards as if swallowing back his shame.

Neil would have reassured him, he’d have gladly told him that it was okay to cry if he wanted to, but he didn’t know the words. He’d never done this before.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, but he felt stunned to recognize the same shakiness in his voice. He hadn’t realized how close he was, too, from letting go. They’d made a point to never repress their emotions when alone, when there was only the both of them—but this seemed different, and not just because they were miles from Evermore. They were the only lively souls in the parking lot of the airport, uselessly lingering in the car when they could have just gone and parted. Neil didn’t believe himself, even, so he tried again: “It’s going to be okay,” and he bit his cheeks hard enough to bleed when he felt Jean shake once more under his grip.

“I can’t,” Jean forced. Neil had seen panic attacks before, mainly because of his father’s fury, his mother’s paranoia and Kevin’s trauma. But Jean’s was different, he felt—it was triggered by Neil, and that was something he’d never experienced. The last time he’d shaken someone that much was Kevin at the banquet, when he’d learned Neil’s true identity. He could imagine how brutal the rush of truth could have been for him then, but Jean had had weeks to prepare himself for this moment. “I can’t let you go.”

“You don’t have to,” Neil said, and he pulled on his grip as if to ask Jean to lean in. he did so, though he kept his eyes glued to the gearshift all along. His words were a silent request to fight back and to leave Evermore, any way he could—yet he knew Jean wouldn’t.

When Jean’s arms violently wrapped around Neil, it was as desperate as it was warm. Neil would have swiftly shifted out of his grip if it wasn’t for this warmth, familiar and reassuring, as Jean’s odor and the weight of his arms were. He tensed up instantly at the contact, but he put numb palms to his back. He didn’t pat and he didn’t stroke. He simply left them there, limp and sore, physically unable to hold onto Jean. It hurt not to be able to crush him between his arms, to squeeze him so tight he’d choke—but it hurt more to realize it was their first—and last—embrace.

Neil, who’d never been one to hug and let himself be hugged, smoothed out a shaky breath when Jean’s hand plunged in his hair and held his head steady. No matter how fragile and broken Jean was, he was as solid as Andrew, an irrefutable protection, a shield that wouldn’t budge. He felt grateful, but couldn’t help bite back the guilt of leaving.

He was probably pulling on Neil’s stitches, and the gearshift between them was probably bruising Jean’s flat and already bruised stomach, but they only let go when Jean started breathing again. They parted like nothing had happened, and Jean averted his gaze immediately, pride comfortably finding its usual place in his stance. A short breath shook his newfound steadiness, but he held tight until it was clear the panic was gone.

It didn’t make things easier, however, and when Jean slipped out of the car, slowly and sorely walking towards Neil’s door to open it from outside, Neil took advantage of the short privacy to close his eyes and sigh. All this time he’d thought leaving Evermore would be easier than arriving, but he was wrong. At least when he’d landed here, he’d hated Jean with all his guts—now there wasn’t any rage to pull himself upright.

“That’s ridiculous,” Neil only said when he turned his head Jean’s way, once the door opened and he stood there. Jean didn’t bother to frown, so Neil pushed his head against the headrest, unwilling to leave just yet. “Ridiculous,” he repeated softly. He even could hear the edge in his voice, though he wasn’t sure who it was directed to.

“It is not. You’re going to miss your boarding. Get the fuck out.” Jean looked away, and he knew better than to linger; each second he tried to selfishly steal was one Jean spent hurt and anxious. There was a good reason for goodbyes to be so brief.

Neil eventually slipped off his seat, as carefully as he could. Jean’s driving had been slow and cautious, avoiding bumps on the road and sudden, brutal braking. There was nothing he could do now that Neil stood on his feet, expect maybe pull a strong arm around his waist and support half his weight. He slid Neil’s duffel bag on his own shoulder—Neil watched cautiously as he did so, but he let him—and they headed in silence to the airport.


	3. There's no leaving now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean suffers Riko's grief, Neil recovers from Baltimore, and in the end all roads lead to another bright glint of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Lis t en,,,,
> 
> I was so emotional writing this, and it didn't help that I did so while listening to Volcano Choir's [Byegone](https://youtu.be/dp127U0EJoI) (it sounds like the hopeful, emotional build up of the ending scene of a movie, but if you want to feel like there's upbeat end credits afterwards—in order to distract yourself from tearing up maybe—then there's [this](https://youtu.be/Q_H77Ledl_I)). My feelings for Jean seem to amplify as seconds pass, and I'm stunned. I'd forgotten how blindly and unquestioningly I could love fictional characters, and Neil and Jean are just so precious. Besides I've stumbled upon Nora's extra content's [ask on Jean's abuse in Evermore](http://korakos.tumblr.com/post/134309599252/and-the-brutality-that-riko-could-inflict-on-jean) and it broke my heart so hard I thought I wouldn't be able to finish this chapter. But I had to, and I did, because Jean deserves a good and hopeful ending. 
> 
> It's boring cheesy and fake deep stuff, it's proud boys hesitating to let go and hope for once, but y'all know they're bound to grow, recover and balance their terrible pasts with some warm and bright futures.
> 
> Also I've had aggressively intense ideas and euphoria for a Jean/Nathaniel longer fic, so if you're interested, stick around.

Kevin knocked first, and gave enough time for Jean to pull himself together or wake up; meanwhile he glanced at Neil and Andrew, unsure as to what to do with them.

“I don’t think you should go,” Kevin said at last.

It didn’t take a second for Neil to protest, and when he did, he did it loud. “Let me in.” As Kevin didn’t say anything, he pressed, a bit more aggressively than he was expected to. “I’m the one Ichirou delivered these news to. I should be the one to explain it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is really is, though,” Neil snapped as a warning, and the way he then said Kevin’s name sounded more like Nathaniel than Neil could possibly ever.

To Andrew, it seemed more than enough of a reason; the accuracy of a truth depended purely on its owner. One could twist it as they pleased, but they could also make it clean and untainted by outer bias. That, Neil knew more than anyone—a master in the art of lying could only hold on to a truth for a good reason.

Kevin stayed quiet for a short moment, eyes obviously debating on whatever seeped through Neil’s tense expression, but Neil couldn’t risk it.

“I said let me in,” he growled, but if Neil raised his voice, that’s because he knew perfectly Jean would recognize it on the other side.

There was no such things as doubt, not when they hadn’t seen each other in weeks; not when Jean had gone through as much pain as Neil had in Baltimore. He couldn’t voice what should have been obvious to them: only Neil could hold Jean together and ease off his pain, like Jean had for him. He couldn’t trust Abby and her gentleness with this job, or Kevin’s cold war of uncertainty and pride.

As he’d predicted, Jean moved on the other side. Neil knew Kevin would have let him in, eventually, that he’d probably mistaken his eagerness to find Jean for something darker that had no affection and no pity. That he could understand—he was different since Evermore, whether he wanted it or not.

But Jean hadn’t suffered through Riko’s grief only to be refused Neil, and he flew the door open in a sharp breath of pain. He looked as bad as they’d expected, if not worse. It didn’t take long for Neil to notice the way his grip tightened on the doorknob, and swallowed back the bitter guilt of making Jean get up when he could hardly move.

“Go back to your bed,” Neil warned as relief and horror warred on his tired face. He was still bruised from Lola’s mistreatment, and the bandages covering his limbs couldn’t possibly be Riko’s doing. He felt Jean’s gaze as it lingered on it, the same way Neil’s did on him—evaluating, searching, piercing. “Go back to your bed,” he repeated, and this time Jean tore his eyes off of him to turn around.

The walk to his bed was sore and slow, and it reminded him of himself when he’d come back from West Virginia, incapable of moving more than one step at a time. Kevin stared until Jean’s crumpled form collapsed on the mattress, but Andrew’s eyes were on Neil. Their gaze met only for a second, but it was enough. He’d have to explain things after that. Somehow, he didn’t really mind, even though Andrew couldn’t possibly understand. Neil didn’t really, either. Andrew nodded silently, offering both approval and avoidance for now.

On his way to Jean’s bed, Neil made a point to stare Kevin down, and perhaps it was a skill he’d perfected back at Evermore, because Kevin eventually looked away. The short satisfaction didn’t last: Jean coughed hard, and he almost expected to see blood on his palm when he stared at it.

He didn’t ask if Jean was okay. That’d be as stupid as useless, and he wasn’t one to mistake pity for worry. There’d be no gentleness in those questions, only reminders of what Jean had been through. Fortunately, though—it also meant he was free.

“So you finally got beaten up, after all,” Neil snarled gently as he sat on the edge of Jean’s bed. Kevin sat on the other with a disapproving scowl, and Andrew leaned against the wall a bit farther, uninterested in whatever they could tell each other.

He felt Kevin’s curious, inquiring eyes on him, but neither Neil nor Jean acknowledged. It wasn’t curiosity; it was disarray, and it was rightfully explainable. Neil hadn’t slipped a word about Jean when he’d come back, just like Kevin had never talked about his time with the Ravens. It was a secret nobody could suspect, a ghost of a memory Neil doubted was real as days went on.

He’d almost texted Jean, once; before deciding he’d be in too much trouble if he ever was caught exchanging messages with a Fox—Neil of all people. Besides, he wasn’t sure Jean would have answered.

Jean’s soft laughter wasn’t as offended as Kevin thought it would. Surely he’d never heard about Neil’s escape plan, about the days spent arguing where Jean’s place really was. “Guess so,” he admitted.

The irony of it was laughable, indeed, but they barely held a smile for each other. The circumstances were too gloomy to rejoice, and Neil’s anger grew as seconds flew by, noticing more and more than he’d have wanted, hardly holding back his hatred for Riko. Oh, he could handle Riko’s violence—he’d grown up with the Butcher, after all. But touching Jean was unforgivable, and he wasn’t about to forget it.

“Why are you here?” Jean asked, voice cracked by pain. He worked a shaky hand through his own hair, neatly avoiding the area Abby had bandaged. He’d lost chunks of hair where Riko had pulled on it, Neil noticed. His blood boiled hard enough that Jean felt it, and he held Neil’s gaze until he saw him calm down. He'd spent enough time with Neil alone to recognize the first signs of Nathaniel's blind, red-hot anger; he'd somehow learned to tame it down as well. Or perhaps it was Neil who simply didn't have it in him to tell him no.

“Neil’s been approached by the main family,” Kevin said flatly when Neil didn't look like he'd reply. It wasn’t worth beating around the bush, besides, these were supposedly good news.

Jean’s attention drifted to Kevin for a short while, before Neil took it on him to explain what he’d been ordered. Jean didn’t blink once, swallowing his words like it could heal him right away—nor did he flinch at names he didn’t want to hear, Neil’s presence reassuring enough that he finally felt safe.

 

* * *

 

“What’s going to happen to him?” Neil asked as he poked his food around his fork. It reminded him of Jean, and his eyes drifted—almost despite himself—towards the clementine Renee had put on her tray.

“Nobody can tell,” she softly said. She searched for Neil’s eyes, but eventually gave up when it was clear he wouldn’t. “Kevin’s and his history is too complicated to be assuming things so soon. The important thing for now is to know whether or not joining the Foxes would be beneficial. For him, most of all—technically speaking, no doubt Jean would be the most talented backliner the Foxes ever had, so that is not worth discussing. What matters is what we could bring and give him.” It sounded easy when it came out of Renee’s lips, and Neil thought, although uselessly, that she’d do well in international diplomacy.

“Well, it probably would. He’d have you.” Of course he’d noticed the way Jean had looked at her, times and times again; and he’d caught him texting Renee more than once at Evermore. It was a risk, yes, but Neil hadn’t said a word because it seemed worth it. He couldn’t tell her that, but he was so painfully grateful she’d gotten Jean out of there when he couldn’t that he could barely look at her in the eyes anymore. A tiny part of him kept thinking it was his role, and he resented her for that, but if anyone could pull Jean out of Edgar Allan without causing too much fallout, it was most likely Renee.

“And he’d have you,” Renee smiled.

Neil looked up and frowned, almost instantly. He wasn’t sure what that bond with Jean was and what it stood for, but Renee had apparently picked up on it. Neil felt unsettled for a brief moment, thinking that she’d been able to see through them when Kevin hadn’t.

Then again, Kevin barely paid attention to anything that wasn’t Exy-related. It was the least expected Fox to understand things Neil himself couldn’t quite explain. Besides, his shaky history with Jean had probably him blinded about most things.

Neil didn’t bother denying it. He simply held Renee’s stare, and she eventually nodded. “Either way he needs to rest and recover. He surely won’t be playing in a while, so that’s not a very urgent question to answer. We must give him time and let him decide for himself.”

“Do you think he could feel good with us?”

“I think,” Renee started, and Neil looked away as he knew the words were coming, “that for now the Foxes might be a little too harsh for his fragility.”

Neil felt like wanting to say Jean was all but fragile, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. It wasn’t that Jean was weak—it was that Jean had been strong for too long. He’d break, eventually, even far from Riko’s influence. The backlash he’d go through for simply leaving Edgar Allan in the wake of Kevin Day would be enough of a danger; they couldn’t selfishly ask him to join the fractured mess the Foxes were. Perhaps Neil had found some kind of balance, a home and friends and a lover of some sort, but he couldn’t expect Jean to do the same. His willpower wouldn’t be enough, even with Neil and Renee at his sides.

“I’m thinking,” she added wisely, “that he should start by recovering on safer grounds.”

She didn’t need to say it: Neil heard it in her smile. “You mean like USC?”

“Exactly.”

She nodded approval, and somehow he didn’t bother protesting. The lightness and sportsmanship of this team had astounded him, and since they’d supported the Foxes to keep them on the line, he couldn’t help but feel a tang of affection towards them. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know them, he could easily guess from Kevin’s blind admiration that they were worth his while. More than that, they could give Jean what he couldn’t give: stability, safety, and more joy and warmth than he’d ever find among the Foxes. He’d never be alone.

“If you’re okay with that decision, I’ll talk to Kevin about it. I’m sure he’ll agree with us.”

“If I’m okay with that decision?” he simply echoed, dumbfounded. He didn't think he'd have a say in any of it.

Her smile was warm and grateful. “Jean looks up to you. Haven’t you noticed?”

“He doesn’t,” Neil snorted in instinctive denial.

“He’s told me about you, you know?” she said, and when their eyes met again, Renee was a toothy grin of affection and optimism. He couldn’t tell if her point of view was biased by it or if she was simply wiser than he was. Either way, he frowned and let her go on. “He told me where you were during Christmas break. Do not hold it against him. He thought it was safer that I'd know about it, just in case, and he trusted me to not tell.”

“Why didn’t you tell the others?”

She shrugged, but Neil felt grateful once more. Renee really did know when to act and when to lie low. “It didn’t seem like their business. I was more afraid about you and Jean’s safety, and it would have been useless to spread panic and worry before you’d come home.”

 _Come home_ sounded good to Neil’s ears, and he gave a brief smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled back. “From what Jean’s told me, you really helped.”

Neil knew Jean must have had issues before his arrival, but not witnessing any panic attacks in his presence had somehow brushed the idea off. Knowing he’d eased things even for a while left him feeling better, though it didn’t last—now Jean seemed alone again, and he couldn’t bear the cold images coming to his mind whenever he thought about Jean’s sore body abandoned in a room he didn’t know. With Riko’s punishment soon to fall upon him and the sense of betrayal from both the Ravens and their fans, oblivious and ignorant, he couldn’t possibly recover if left alone.

USC was a good opportunity, he decided. Being a pair at Evermore meant they were never truly alone, and Jean wouldn’t handle loneliness too well. From what he’d seen, none of the players on USC’s lineup looked like loners; and though it was unrealistic to assume they were all as well-meaning and soft as Renee, he guessed they wouldn’t give Jean enough space to drift back to panic.

It still bothered him that he wouldn’t be there, even days after this conversation. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d be amputated of his half, and that neither him nor Jean would ever really be whole again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Neil,” Dan said—and her anxious expression as she looked above his shoulder could have meant all possible nightmares for Neil, but it didn’t. It was concern but it was soft, as though she’d hesitated asking for his attention. He only understood when he turned around, knees wobbly and chest heavy with exhaustion, his breath barely steady enough for him to recover. He could still hear Riko screaming with pain in the background, but he’d wasted enough time with his meaningless existence.

Jean stood on the side of the court, a safe distance from Wymack who, arms crossed, stared right back at him in a blurry mixture of pride and relief. He wasn’t sure it was only today’s deafening victory, or Andrew’s confident stance as he stood still between Neil and Riko—and a thin crowd of panic-stricken team nurses and teammates—, racquet tight in his fist as though daring him to get up and reach for Neil again.

Andrew’s unwavering protection was no news to them, but it was perhaps terrible for Neil to realize his first encounter had been Andrew hitting him with his racquet, so hard in his guts he couldn’t choke, couldn’t heave, couldn’t breathe. Now Andrew stood strong and unconcerned, acting like he hadn’t just saved Neil from what could have been the irreparable. More terrifying: he met Neil’s gaze, calm as he was detached from whatever scenes seemed to happen around them, the Foxes crashing into one another in a deafening cry of disbelief, pride and hope—the Ravens standing horrified as their captain screamed pain and rage—the crowd going wild over so many things to witness and process. Soon enough the police would get involved and would force the public out of the stadium, and Andrew was smart enough to know it meant Neil didn’t have much time left.

“Go,” Dan said with a warm smile that twitched with the same pride a mother would have toward her child.

Neil instinctively glanced at Andrew. He nodded silently, briefly closing his eyes as he did. He was as collected as he’d expected him to, and Neil couldn’t help but offer a sincere half-smile, which Andrew happily ignored. He’d have all the time in the world to recall the way Neil’s mouth curved almost against his will, for so many reasons it looked barely bearable.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He offered his helmet to Andrew, who took it so surely he’d probably expected it—but before he could hand him his racquet and gloves, Dan made a step and took them. He thanked them with another lightning-quick grin and jolted to a run in the opposite direction, body so sore with exhaustion and adrenalin that he wasn’t sure he could stomach another minute.

But it only took a few seconds to get to the inner court where Jean stood tall, looking visibly torn between the embarrassment of being there and the pride that usually knotted fierce brows close together. His arrogance had nothing defensive tonight, and though he could tell bandages despite Jean’s beanie, hoodie and gloves, clothes that he most likely only wore to hide the extent of damages—or spare innocent eyes of human cruelty—he could also tell Jean was getting better. He glanced at Abby, and she glanced back; he guessed she’d brought him there knowingly, and that she recognized the calm relief in Neil’s eyes—one to witness with his own two eyes that Jean Moreau might actually be okay.

“Hey,” he said when he lifted his gaze back to Jean. Jean’s height had been much wasted the last days Neil had spent at Evermore, shoulders tense and crumpled, giving up on a few inches that could have easily dominated Neil. Now, though, he stood tall and straight, ignoring the pain he was probably still in by even standing. It should have taken days for him to even be able to breathe without hissing in pain.

“Hey,” Jean replied simply. Everything about him shone with pride and a confidence that he knew was half for show; yet more than one could ever expect from a victim like Jean. He was still strong enough to hold his chin high after all of this, and Neil took comfort in it.

He quickly realized Jean’s eyes had drifted behind him and towards the mass surrounding Riko, acknowledging the damages and trying to help. Coaches seemed furious, gesturing at each other as they spoke, and Neil felt guilty for a second, to have Jean so close to the last people he wanted to cross path with.

Somehow it brought a sick warmth to his guts, like the easy and satisfying sensation of being right. It didn’t make sense until Neil figured it was Jean’s presence itself—the fact that he’d preferred to come here for Neil even though it meant being around his former team. No victim could possibly be masochistic enough to step closer to its abuser more than necessary, but it couldn’t mean anything but fierce loyalty; the irrefutable truth that somewhere along the way, Jean had stopped obeying Riko in favor of blindly following Neil.

“Kevin did good,” Jean nodded.

“Yeah he did,” Neil flatly confirmed. Their casual small talk might have sounded off to most, unsuspecting ears, but the silence between their words meant more than one could fathom. “Kevin’s going to be okay.” With that he looked at Jean, their eyes having drifted in Kevin’s direction, where he stood between cheerful bodies asking for his attention but simply looked back at them, cold in hesitation. Neil guessed going over their history was part of Kevin and Jean’s recovery, and it got him thinking. “Did you come to see him play?”

Jean’s eyes lingered a few more seconds, and even when he looked away, they could feel the weight of Kevin’s searching gaze on them from the other side of the court.

“No,” he said, detached like Andrew would have. It was a carefree and unconcerned no, a no that didn’t imply anything, a no that certainly held no shame and no offense. “I came for you.”

Neil didn’t have much time to react, though they both knew he wouldn’t have done much more than stare and consider—Jean’s cheekbone tattoo was still showing, though half-hidden by surrounding bruises and cuts, and it didn’t take long for the press to catch up. Before they could realize it they were behind the railing, snapping quick photographs of the two of them and eyeing the pair with a curiosity drowning in confusion.

No one had ever seen Jean and Neil interacting together in public, with the exception of the insincere and fearful Banquet conflicts where the only inquiring eyes that lingered were the stern Ravens’. The press couldn’t possibly know whatever had happened at Evermore, and he didn’t want them to—for Jean’s sake more than his own. He vaguely heard Wymack trying to shy away a few nosy photographers before Abby scolded him softly, and even then he recognized the flashes of camera a few feet away.

He didn’t mind. He had nothing left to hide.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Neil sighed.

Jean didn’t need to ask who he was talking about, and his eyes absent-mindedly lingered on the crowd for a second. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I can.”

“But you did, didn’t you? Back at the Banquet when you told Kevin who I was. It didn’t seem like a problem.” It wasn’t an accusation and Jean knew better than to think it was. Neil’s usual wary, hot-headed and feisty eyes only offered peace of mind tonight. “The Perfect Court has nothing left of it,” Neil encouraged. “The queen has conquered and the king has fallen. This,” he went on as he gently tapped his burned cheekbone, “isn’t anymore. Do what you have to do with your freedom.”

It had been obvious, with Kevin’s long-awaited rebellion and Riko’s fall from grace—both from a terrible defeat and from Andrew’s powerful swing of a racquet. Voicing it now, however, made it so surreal Jean could barely process the information.

“Do you think he’ll want to talk to me?” Jean shrugged, but Neil knew him too well to think he didn’t care.

“He has to. You did nothing wrong.”

Jean stared hard, making it a point for himself to try and hold Neil’s unwavering stare instead of choosing the easy way out by looking away. He was done being shy and he was done being weak. Neil was right.

He’d done nothing wrong. He’d done _nothing_ wrong.

“Putain,” Jean let out in what sounded half a sigh and half a tear choked back. Jean’s eyes were dry and fierce when he lessened their distance, stepping forward hurriedly.

His strong arms closed around Neil’s shorter silhouette, as if protecting him from the rest of the world. It did feel like it, even with a roaring crowd shouting louder and louder at the sight, dismayed and disbelieving, excited as confused but either way howling their lungs out.

It took Neil less time than last time to relax and hold him back, and the Foxes, who’d stopped their warm, cheery celebration to watch them from the court, stared in quiet and shared confusion. They didn't even know Neil and Jean had come to tolerate each other—this sincere reunion was as surreal as it was unexpected. Neil had never really returned any of the Foxes' hugs, no matter how sincere or how familiar, Neil’s habits hanging on too hard and his distrust for unasked for contact too strong to make him at ease. It didn’t mean he didn’t like their display of affection towards him, and it didn’t mean he wanted them to stop. He’d simply never really known how to return the embrace, child of fear and instinct borne far and far away from love and stability year after year. His mother herself had never been too soft, had never been too affectionate. Andrew’s questionable care was the closest thing he’d come to a returned hug, and he did so with Jean with such ease and evidence that it made no sense even to him.

He held tight nonetheless. Leaning in must have hurt, but Jean made no move to step back. He couldn’t tell if the way Jean held onto the raw embrace was relief from his recently granted freedom or pride that Neil had destroyed Jean’s worst nightmare on the court. Either way it was a great warmth to Neil’s already sweaty skin, and he sighed comfortably in the crook of Jean’s high neck, easily ignoring the loud camera flashes that could have blinded him if he hadn’t closed his eyes.

They only parted when steps idly screeched on the court floor right behind them. Neil turned away, cautious and protective, but his defensive stance eased off when he recognized Kevin’s thoughtful face. He didn’t step away to leave them space just yet, and instead just waited to see if Kevin would apologize first. It was very unlikely, but he wanted to see anyway.

Kevin’s eyes slid from Jean’s surprised face—softened by Neil’s presence and the affection and trust so unquestioningly returned—to Neil’s, and wordless warnings cut through the lingering pride he held for Neil. Not just his performance, though Kevin would never admit that.

How ironic, for a runaway who made a living out of disappearing and running for his life, to be the one to teach two arrogant, lonely boys how to stand their ground and be brave. How to ask for freedom. How to convince themselves that they deserved it no matter what the world told them. How to survive in other ways than running away, how to keep going, how to be _okay_ instead of just _fine_.

Neil’s pig-headedness lingered a few seconds, but it’s only when Jean’s gloved hand brushed his shoulder in a gentle proof that they would be okay that Neil sighed and stepped back. Already police offers were working their way through the crowd, security ushering the crowd out of the stadium though their fierce enthusiasm for the odd reunions and spectacular plot twists made it harder for them to control the flow.

Neil didn’t give a single glance to the fans and jogged back to Andrew’s side, content to just be. He’d done enough for today, and Andrew familiar’s detachment sent a rush of a appeasement through him. He didn’t smile, and neither did Andrew, but they held each other’s gaze with such determination that no one could have broken the contact.

Andrew’s protective affection and cold territorialism had never been too vocal, and only well-practiced people like Neil could see through Andrew’s blank stare right away. There he could only see trust and pride and a sickening hope that things might be alright for once.

For Neil, who’d seemed to attract deathly close calls in abnormal amounts.

For Andrew, who’d never let himself hope or want for anything because hurting himself was the only way to make people’s cruelty less deafening.

For Jean, who’d fought and fought and survived although everything had seemed to be against him—even himself.

For Kevin, who’d never really dared to stand his ground on his own because he’d been told his entire life that he could never be more than that and had actually believed so.

For the Foxes, who’d fought claws and teeth to prove their worth on and off the court, clinging to one another in a fierce determination not to ever let go, not to ever let one of them down despite their bone-deep fractures and the countless obstacles life had thrown their way.

For Wymack, for Abby, for anyone who’d ever doubted they could be okay.

When Neil looked back at them, he knew Jean was right. They were all going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are we here?” Jean asked, rather impatiently, but Neil ignored him with the long practice of befriending Kevin on a daily basis. The discontented sound that followed didn’t reach his ears, and Neil motioned him to follow as he walked to the edge of the roof. Jean made a face but didn’t protest, and it’s only when they stood side by side on the edge of the building that Jean dared to look down. “Did you drag me all the way up to push me off the edge? That’s what I call determination—or shall I say, desperation. You are stupid.”

The familiar insult only got to Neil in soft waves, more of a reminiscence and a proof that Jean was here with him than a demonstration of annoyance. Jean knew better than to change Neil’s mind anyway—or to distract him from the gut-wrenching height separating them from the ground, making both of them breathless and wary. Awake and alive.

“I used to hate roofs before,” Neil recalled. It wasn’t open and it didn’t ask for an answer, so Jean gave none. Neil’s brows visibly furrowed as he tried to distinguish the blurry forms standing on the sidewalk—most likely late smokers out in the cold, or perhaps lonely people as lost as they were. “I learned how to force my way toward the closest exit, to make the fastest shortcuts. Spot building plans for emergency exits and stairwells, anything that could grant an escape. Roofs,” he started, as if trying to remember what it felt when he’d stepped up the roof with Andrew for the first time. “They were dangerous. Backing out wasn’t quick enough and there’s barely anything you can do when you’re standing six or eighty floors up the ground.”

Jean stared as Neil calmly gave a word after the other, drawing a blurry yet too-honest picture of what his life had been like. He’d gotten pieces of Jean before, but they were never willingly given—he’d only learned to get him through twitching lips and tense features, through white knuckles and shaky fists, through disapproving eyes and anxious brows knotted in a confusion that could bleed, that could not forgive. Neil’s identity had been a mess these past years, erased and redrawn again, shifted, reshaped to fit a safe ideal, a meaningless being he was supposed to become. Yet he was giving Jean a bit of himself—a bit of Nathaniel—a part of him that he could have chosen to keep and never share.

He didn’t tell Neil he appreciated it. It would have been too easy, and they weren’t like that. Softness had never been what’d kept them together. What convinced Jean to stand on the edge of the building alongside Neil, he didn’t know, but it was obscure as it was strong—an unshakeable and terrifying feeling that might resemble trust.

“What’s that got to do with me?” he simply asked, smart enough to know not to comment on Neil’s bad habits and his runaway life.

It was public knowledge by now that Neil Josten’s life hadn’t been easy, and it certainly hadn’t been peaceful. Whatever anger Jean had been through when he’d been traded and enrolled in the Ravens, whatever fear and loneliness followed the moment he’d decided not to fight anymore, it was more than enough for him to understand. He wasn’t privy or noisy, he only listened. He respected. He understood.

Neil eventually turned his head toward him, eyes searching for something on Jean’s puzzled face. “Do you want to jump?”

He watched as Jean’s face visibly blanched. It wasn’t possibly colors—it was too dark outside and too late in the night for them to possibly see it, as much as a hot and distracted Neil couldn’t be caught blushing whenever he hung out on the roof with Andrew for their late night makeout sessions. It was there, but in the way Jean’s brows twitched with surprise and a bit of horror, like somehow, he wasn’t quite sure what the answer was.

He glanced at the edge again, then at the few inches separating his black sneakers from the void, and finally at the sidewalk way too far down. Jean swallowed, but he didn’t back off. He’d backed off enough. “No,” he said, but it was meek and weak as he knew it would. A while ago—not that long ago—he would have probably said _yes_ , and he would have said so with the shameless rage of someone who couldn’t see another way to get down this building. Jumping off the roof was as difficult as surviving was, and to people like Jean, people who’d been brought down, abandoned, hurt and hurt and hurt, it was a peaceful way out. He wasn’t sure Neil could ever understand that, with his fierce rage and his unwavering determination to survive even when all the odds seemed to say otherwise. Then again, he realized Neil somehow did, even if he’d never jump. If anything, he knew Jean well enough to know that _no_ wouldn’t be an answer Jean would have always thought and kept, like the unshakeable faith of people who want to live.

It gave away more than Jean wanted to, but their intimacy was so twisted and so deep that he didn’t bother trying to hide it. There was no point in lying and even less in fighting Neil off, when he couldn’t possibly fathom a more suitable boy to tell his troubles to. Neil could handle anything. He could bear the weight of it. He could even, perhaps, convince Jean that there would always, always be an emergency exit waiting for him—one that didn’t involve jumping off a roof.

“No,” he repeated, loud enough that Neil felt satisfied by it. He nodded silently, and it took them a while to talk after that. It’s not that they felt embarrassed or didn’t know what to say; they simply didn’t want to spoil the horrific authenticity of their relationship by unwanted conversations and useless questions.

That’s mostly why they never asked each other if they were fine—and that’s mostly why Neil never had to lie to Jean by affirming he was.

“Now look,” he said as he held a finger towards the horizon. Even in the middle of the night, the night sky had merged into strange colors; all black and dark orange and blurry shadows. It felt like watching the end of the world from afar—a fire so distant it couldn’t even be smelled. Neil realized he hadn’t even reached for his cigarettes, but he surprised himself even more by realizing he didn’t want one tonight.

“That’s the sky, Neil,” Jean pointed out with a bored and arrogant tone. Neil’s name felt soft on Jean’s tongue and softer even in Neil’s ears.

“No, it isn’t.” The fearless denial made no sense to him, so Neil went on with the lively eyes of someone who knows how to bother, who knows how to annoy and how to shake. Someone happy to bring an unexpected truth. Someone grateful to be able to share a lesson he’d learned along the way, as if perpetuating an endless cycle of healing that would eventually fix fucked up people like them. “Look,” he repeated, and he didn’t bother waiting for Jean to obey when he felt his impatience cutting through. Jean had never been a patient one, that much is true. “It’s not just the sky and it’s not just the city. It’s not just a place you’ll leave and people you don’t know. It’s not just streets and cars and noise and buildings. It’s opportunities and it’s bravery, it’s a fucking reminder of how far you’ve come. I’m not pointing at the sky because it’s beautiful and picture-perfect. I’m pointing at the sky because it’s living proof that the sun will rise again. It’s evidence that you’ve survived. You’ve survived, Jean.”

Jean only stared back with dismayed eyes, and he realized he’d never understood how much of a survivor he was.

“I’ve spent my whole life surviving and getting through life, trying my best just so I could see another morning. I know a survivor when I see one.” He tore his gaze away from Jean, and eventually he felt Jean do the same.

He didn’t congratulate Jean, and Jean didn’t thank him. They only stood there watching as dark shades of orange and black stirred together, as a sleepless city kept moving.

“So what are we supposed to do, now?”

Jean had signed with the Trojans and Riko had been executed. Tetsuji has resigned and the Ravens would take years to recover. The Foxes were finally whole—and Neil’s striker had signed a few days ago. Neil was going to spend the summer with Andrew and try to discover life as it is, try to bloom far from the shadows he could only hide in. Jean was going to heal properly and the Trojans would joyfully be in charge of his recovery. Day after day after day both of them were going to learn and relearn how to be okay and how to believe that they were. They’d never be alone again. Next year Neil would be vice-captain and he’d play and he’d live. He wasn’t sure what they were supposed to do now, but he knew they didn’t need to worry.

Jean’s calm and composure could have sounded like confusion and helplessness, but Neil knew better. It was hope and it was hesitation—it was Jean’s first shaky steps towards recovery, and Neil’s lingering gaze following him every second.

“Heal,” he said. “Survive,” he added, when he recalled their conversation at Evermore. Back then it hadn’t made much sense, words filling empty silences to make them feel less lonely and perhaps, less desperate too. Now the pieces appeared to fit together, a little more with each passing second. They could only stare in awe and watch their crumbled ruins get reconstructed again into something they could make a life out of.

“How long?” Jean asked despite himself, and knowing he remembered that too had Neil’s mouth twitching as it fought back an absentminded grin.

Neil looked over the edge and off to the horizon. Infinity stretched into the night sky, never-ending, and it was almost a promise of a long-deserved liberty they’d never dared to hope for. They were free, they were free, they were free.

“Does it matter?” Neil shrugged, more softly than he thought he would, and his thoughtful eyes met Jean’s for a moment.

Jean gave all the answers he needed—it was the first time he’d ever seen Jean smile.

**Author's Note:**

> For all those of you who didn’t understand a single thing in French, here it is.  
> 1 – “You’re stupid, you know that right?”  
> 2 – “Do as he says, for once.” (…) “Please.”  
> 3 – “Please don’t pretend you don’t want to fucking leave this place.”  
> 4 – “You want this as much as I do. Even more now than when Kevin left.”  
> 5 – “Your contract isn’t untouchable, is it? There must be… there is—” (…) “a way to get you out of this prison.”  
> 6 – “What do you suggest?”  
> 7 – “Are you crazy? Fuck, you’re crazy.”  
> 8 – “And what, you? You can’t even stand on your two legs. You can barely get up from the bench without any help from me.”


End file.
